


oh please, give me mercy no more

by tsukishimmy



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Torture, Bottom Zenos yae Galvus, Dominant Masochism, Dominatrix, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Heavy BDSM, Masochism, Masochist Zenos yae Galvus, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Submissive Zenos yae Galvus, Zenos yae Galvus being Zenos yae Galvus, god will never forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukishimmy/pseuds/tsukishimmy
Summary: "She laughs, for what else can she do? An enigma of a man, who desires violence the way other men desire warm company."zenos gets tortured because he thinks it's super sexy. y'know, normal, mentally healthy behavior.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	oh please, give me mercy no more

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Celestial and Star for beta reading! 
> 
> join the bookclub :) https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic

"If you fidget, you will ruin the design."

Ifrit places the scalpel on her tongue, mouth encompassing the blade to clean the blood off it. She digs her fingers into his shoulder, a silent demand for him to stay still, as she wipes the knife with the cup of alcohol by her side.

"Then you will look more hideous than you already do." A smile tugs at her lips as she watches crimson weep from the newly open wound.

Zenos hasn't shifted since he sat down before her. He is more like a canvas than a man, sitting perfectly still. Except canvases didn't speak, so whenever he does, Ifritah jumps on the opportunity to scold him for squirming.

None of this bothers him, which in turn bothers her.

He doesn't even utter a sound when the small blade breaks skin. Despite his enemy holding a knife to his back, he seems relaxed, carving away at  _ precious _ Garlean skin. It frightens her - she would never admit this out loud. The way no amount of pain she could inflict would make him hurt. He even  _ hums _ at one point, scalpel still deep in the dermis.

_ Arrogant ass _ , she thinks, carving whatever was coming to mind. The prideful viceroy continues to prove himself fearless of everything. Another thing that annoys her.

She wasn't sure what design to give him - her own designs resembled that of the sun. Her mother and Azam always called her  _ my little sunshine _ , which is why she named her Ifritah - a being of fire. The idea of it was there, but the people here... they simply did not understand, so she took her mother's name instead. Parizad.

Zenos laughed when she told him the name she went by, Parizad, was not her real name.  _ Ifritah suits you better, _ he said to her. She wanted to lunge on him and tear his hair out for such a comment. The audacity of this man, to tell her that her name suited her. To remind her she should not hide who she really is.

Beneath the beautiful facade, she is just a beast. A weapon of destruction, where no moral law can hold her down.

He knew this; he encourages it as well. To let her be who the world molded her to be, an animal looking for vengeance.

"How long will this take?"

His words stir her from the depths of her mind; how long has it been? The piece is halfway done, and Zenos' back is stained crimson.

"Gods, how are you still awake?"

Never has blood taken her aback, but the amount that was on her hands and his back -  _ the fact he was still alive and well _ . It makes her skin crawl.

She reaches for a rag that has been soaking in alcohol, to clean the wounds. He doesn't hiss or flinch or make a sound then either. Instead he sighs, as if entering a hot bath. She laughs, for what else can she do? An enigma of a man, who desires violence the way other men desire warm company.

"You are enjoying this," Ifritah begins, circling around the seated viceroy to stand in front of him. She holds his face in her bloodied hands, making him look at her.

She does not hide her amusement, her smile wide as eyes calculate what other atrociously painful things she can do to him.

"I wonder what it will take to break you."

"I accept your challenge, my beast." He returns the smile, as if knowing exactly what is churning in the depths of her mind. She wouldn't be shocked if he knew; at the core, they were a reflection of one another.

"Very well, my pet."

* * *

Barely a week had passed before they met again, in the same secluded and abandoned home at the far reaches of Ala Mhigo. An old battlefield, with salted land so that no one could inhabit it for several moons. It is desolated, a ghost town.

It's perfect for them.

When Zenos arrives, Ifritah is already at the table assorting through various knickknacks and tools. He doubts she can surprise him, but nonetheless keeps his guard up.

As always.

Though their relationship is close and affectionate, they both understand their duty at the end of the day. Hers was to kill him, and his? Well, keep her around for long enough, for everything else in this world is dreadfully dull. He'd rather die with her blade in his chest than from monotony.

He approaches the table to inspect the tools she set out.

He doesn't hold back his laughter, the rudimentary instruments just another emphasis on how primary the Eorzean culture is. He picks up a scalpel – examining it between his fingers. His laughter subsides, but his amusement is written plainly on his face.

"Did you rob a child on the way here?"

She hits his arm before snatching the scalpel from his fingers, muttering something in a language that he believes hailed from Dalmasca. He doesn't need to hear her words nor understand what she was saying; the ferocity in her tone was indication enough.

"It is about how you use the tools, not the tool itself," Ifritah snaps.

He can practically feel her anger radiating off of it. It's intoxicating – it was  _ exciting _ . He couldn't wait to feel that raw, unbridled rage inflicted upon him.

"Go and sit on the floor, I'll be there in a moment."

She places the scalpel back on the table with care. Shrugging off his jacket and throwing it to the side, he saunters to the middle of the room.  _ Sit on the floor _ , he wants to roll his eyes. 

He looks for any indication of  _ where _ he should sit, but nothing reveals itself to him. From behind, Ifritah approaches and places a hand on the small of his back. She points to the floor, where a metal loop is wedged into the stone floor. 

His brow raises; that was not there before.

"Get on the floor, Zenos, I promise I swept it for your royal highness," she gives him a gentle nudge forward. "Sit in front of it, so your hands are behind." 

Complying, he seats himself on the floor, her hands on his shoulders guiding him on how to sit. Once he's seated, her hands dig into the waistband of his pants, fingers grasping on the white blouse. He wants to taunt her, but he saves the comment for later. He's sure that they'll be plenty of time to torment her tormentor later. 

Ifrit pulls the white blouse off and over his head, tossing it to the side where his jacket lay.

Calloused fingers brush against his bare shoulders, tracing each muscular curve. He sighs when she traces a finger down his back. Hands brushing against the design of the hound she carved into him. 

She kneels behind him now, taking his wrists in her hands and pulling them behind him. She places a kiss on the nook between his neck and shoulder, lips lingering as she bounds his wrists with leather cuffs.

"If it ever is too much, tell me." Her words are soft. The leather straps grip tightly on Zenos' wrists as she pulls the buckles taut. 

"There is no need to patronize me." At his words, she tugs on the cuffs pulling his arms further back. 

Muscles spasm, threatening to snap if they are put under any more stress. The average individual would have cried out in pain, but all he does is sigh with contempt. 

When she grabs his hair and pulls, he can't help but moan - the smallest thing. A sample of what is yet to come. He enjoys the way her face lights up whenever he's pleasured, it's erotic in and of itself. 

"Don't tell me this is all you have planned." 

Ifritah releases his hair and circles around him, adjusting the leather gloves. His gaze drops to her hands and back up to her; his smirk grows.

"Afraid to get your hands dirty, my beast?"

"You talk an awful lot for someone roped up like cattle to the slaughter." Her expression is one of annoyance. "I have just the remedy for yapping dogs." 

Now  _ this _ has caught his interest. He watches her saunter over to the table and pull something out from a satchel; she hides it from his view knowing it would only add to the excitement. 

When she is in front of him, she produces a leather band with a circular object strapped to the centre. 

"Open wide," she says, practically beaming with excitement. 

But oh,  _ no _ . Zenos won't comply so easily - where is the fun in that? Instead, he stares up at her, with his usual, indifferent gaze.

Ifritah's expression drops at his defiance, but quickly re-establishes itself when her eyes light up with an idea.

Placing the gag in one hand, she returns to the table and produces a riding crop. A chill of excitement runs up his spine as she approaches. 

Ifritah watches him lick at his lips with anticipation as she presses the riding crop against his chest, dragging the leather tab upwards until it rests beneath his chin. Tilting Zenos' head upwards, she gives him a sinister smile before whipping him across the face. 

His body barely jerks against the force of the hit, so she does it once more. And again. And again. Until he finally moves to the force of the hit. His chest rises and falls, not from pain - from excitement. Crimson blossoms against his cheek, and will surely turn purple by morn. 

Ifrit does not allow him a moment of rest - he does not need it. Leaning forward Ifrit grabs a fistful of his hair - bright and golden like the sun - and yanks it with tempered force. This is the final shove; she watches her beast's eyes flutter backwards with pleasure, mouth agape as a moan is drawn out from him.

She relishes in the pure bliss he is experiencing. It ignites a fire in her chest that she knows will only grow as they delve deeper into the night. Ifrit pulls once more on his hair, with force, just to produce that same indecent sound once more. The one that made her mind spark like fireworks. 

Even when he tries to deny her what she has rightfully earned, she only enjoys it more, tugging harder until his back is a perfect arch. Ifrit rests the heel of her boot on his thigh, digging the sharp end into the flesh. 

Still digging her heel into his thigh, she produces the gag from her back pocket. Swiftly, as if she had done it numerous times before, she wraps the leather band around his head, making sure it is nice and snug against his lips. Heart fluttering with excitement, she holds his face between her two hands, unconsciously licking her lips at the sight of the  _ oh so powerful _ viceroy bound and gagged beneath her.

"This look suits you well," her thumb gently brushes against his red cheek. "Bound and gagged, practically begging me to beat you within an inch of your life."

Once she can feel him relax into her grasp, her sharp nail digs into the sensitive, crimson skin. Beneath the gag, he wantonly whines, scarlet weeping from the newly formed cut. She cannot help but oblige his unspoken demands, digging her nails deeper into his skin.

The noises he makes,  _ gods _ . For the briefest of moments her own eyes flutter shut, allowing the full scope of her body to truly feel each and every whimper and hum. The hair on her skin raises, her body squirming with anticipation in rhythm with his.

Releasing his face from her grasp, she walks over to the table to switch the riding crop for another tool. Anticipation balloons in his chest and stomach as he watches her pick through the supplies. His indifferent expression shatters when he sees the nine-tailed scourge, the sharp, steel ends winking in the dim light of the candle. 

The burning sting of a freshly open wound is not something to hiss at with pain. The first several strikes to his back produces no sound except the odd grunt from the viceroy. Though agonizing to experience, he relishes in the sensation of cool metal ripping at the hot flesh. When he feels Ifrit behind him, digging a sharp nail into the new marks, he leans back against her touch, desperate for more. 

The extent of his pain tolerance is truly put to the test. It must have been hours that had passed between his first arrival and now. His precious beast had done all she could to break him, to see even one expression of suffering on his visage. All she recieves are sounds of his pleasure. There is no frustration on her behalf; the way she watches him with wide, beautiful eyes, whining for more every time. It's obvious, she's just as aroused as he was. Perhaps not as physically present like it is for him. 

"I have a grand finale planned for you, my pet." 

The heat of the room and the exertion has left droplets of sweat adorning her skin like jewels. Her white blouse hugs her figure tightly, not leaving much for the imagination. 

She approaches and he can smell every inch of her; his own blood and her sweat.  _ Gods _ , it is truly intoxicating. The only thing stopping him from freeing himself from his bounds is his curiosity. If not for the promise of a grand finale, he would have already snapped out of the leather cuffs and fucked his beast relentlessly over the table.

He knew she would have enjoyed it; he would have too. 

But instead he waits patiently. He is more interested to see this grand finale than to relieve himself of the growing pressure in these damn restrictive pants. 

As if reading his mind, her hands hesitate. " _ Behave _ ." Her voice is commanding, one he is sure she uses against new recruits. It's more adorable than threatening. 

His eyes smile, indicating he will behave himself - as long as whatever she has to show would be interesting. If not - well it would be time for him to take the reigns. She knows this too, it is their unspoken agreement. They treated one another as they needed to be treated; nothing more than a beast. 

Her hands unlatch the gag, and she walks to the table to put it in its proper place. Zenos flexes his jaw, opening and closing it to soothe the stiff joints. 

"There was something you said to me once," her voice is low, yet brimming with contagious anticipation.

The light catches off the edge of the blade, and Ifritah makes no effort in hiding it. Instead, she makes quite the display; slowly sauntering up to him, placing the cool metal against his throat. He couldn't remember exactly what he had said to her. He's too preoccupied with the thrill of a knife against his throat, the closeness of her supple breasts, the white cloth hugging it so tightly. 

Her lips barely brush his ear as she leans close, her voice low enough that not even the gods could hear such heretical words being spoken. The heat of her breath sends a shiver up his spine, muscles in his shoulders and neck tensing. The words she speaks,  _ oh gods _ , they're simply too good to be true.

"I'm going to bury my teeth in your jugular, _ and drink my fill _ ."

The familiar sensation of blade slicing through skin is met with pure ecstasy. Ifritah's heart feels though it may jump from her chest, free from the cage that contains it. A part of her wishes to hold back, to not delve into such atrocious acts. Yet another demands she do it. The hunger of the beast  _ demands _ that she bleeds him dry. It  _ demands _ that she drinks her fill, and so much more.

Beneath the facade of a proper woman, of a  _ true _ hero, a beast stirs. A monster that wishes to indulge on the flesh of those who created it; who fed and bred it. Who brought it into this world. 

Plush lips wrap around the open wound, initially allowing the blood to flow into her mouth freely. Not even a moment passes and she wants  _ more _ . Her teeth dig into the cut, dragging the wound more open, and sucking the blood right from the lesion. 

He does not move; in fact he pushes against her, true and bona fide moans grow louder with each sip she takes. Her claws dig into his scalp, holding him closer, and _closer_ , until she is practically suffocating against his skin. Beneath her teeth, she tears the flesh, bliss blooming in her chest like a spring flower. The only thing she could hear were the blissful sounds of him announcing his pleasure and the beast nourishing itself.

Ifrit forces herself to part from him, for she fears what monster she may become if she indulges that creature further. Her chin and blouse are stained crimson, droplets of blood trickle down her neck. She can't help but give him a bloody smile when she sees how hard he is. 

She further dresses her lips in his blood, as if she is putting on rouge. Bending forward, she presses her foot against his erection, gradually applying pressure with each hiss he makes.

"So high and mighty, and yet what you wanted all along was to be treated like cattle," she grabs a fist full of his hair, pulling him forward to meet her half way. " _ A sheep to the slaughter _ , that is all you are."

Ifrit tugs harder on his hair, bringing his lips to hers. When he tastes his own bitter, metallic blood against her lips, he can no longer contain his desire. He deepens the kiss as he comes, letting her taste the peak of his pleasure. 

But a taste was not enough to sate her swelling appetite. 

When they part, she takes the heel of her boot and forces it into his shoulder, pushing the viceroy onto his back. Freely, still rearing from the first orgasm _ ,  _ he falls onto his back, letting her dig her heel further into his shoulder. He moans against the pain, the weight nearly breaking skin and making porcelain weep. 

Ifritah straddles him, his erection growing once more as she applies pressure on the new wound with one of her sharp claws. The feeling of him growing beneath her fills her stomach with burning anticipation, and hastily she begins to remove her leather pants. It is a struggle to do so, and she swears she hears him chuckle at her struggle. It earns him a slap in the face, hard enough to make it sound like thunder clapping - but he just smiles against the blooming purple on his cheek.

Finally free from the chastity of her leather pants, she tugs on the leash once more to pull him up to meet her lips. She grinds against him, biting on his lip to draw blood as he moans into her mouth. Ifrit releases the leash, pushing him back down onto the floor, his head banging against the harsh floor. 

One hand on his throat, she grabs his cock with the other, not hesitating to take all of him into her. She bites her own lip, back arching, as she pushes herself further down against him, sighing as she does so. The suddenness of it all is painful, she can feel her muscles reject such a sudden stretch. But it is the pain of it and her bloodied, beaten lover beneath her, that made her more wet.

From there, things go rather smoothly and swiftly.

At the peak of her desire and his, she leans forward to lick the blood from his bruised chest. Tongue tracing the red marks left behind by the riding crop, sighing with delight at the taste of metal against warm flesh. It is the sensation of her warm mouth against his sensitive skin, the nails digging into his throat, threatening to cut vital arteries, that brings him tumbling over the edge once more. 

And she, too, finishes with him.

Ifritah does not part from him immediately. Instead she rests her head on his chest as she recollects whatever sanity she could gather. She had just beaten Zenos to an ilm of his life and then fucked him senseless. It was not something a sane person would do; but she is not sane, and he adored her for that.

"Are you alright?" She mutters, pulling herself off of him. She can feel his blood staining one side of her face, but makes no move to clean it.

His eyes had been closed, but one pops open at her words. Immediately, he smiles at her. "Yes, I am. Untie me, will you?"

Her hands immediately go to the bindings to release him. Knowing his strength, he could have easily escaped from the leather cuffs, and the roughhousing has left a bracelet of red around his wrists.

They help one another with their clothes, washing them with whatever available water there is, and left them out to dry. While waiting, they lay with one another on a makeshift bed of pillows and carpets.

She tried to use magic to heal him, but all he does is laugh and refuse. No longer capable of putting up a fight with the stubborn bull of a man, she silently complies. 

"What will you tell your men when you return bloody and bruised?" Her fingers gently brush through his golden hair. His eyes are closed as she lays next to him, a hand on his stomach as it rises and falls. 

"That I battled a great beast, who put up an admirable fight."

She smiles at his words.

"But a beast that needs more training in the art of torture."

Her expression drops, and without a second to consider, she smacks him hard against the blooming bruise on his chest. He jerks at the sudden hit, a small hiss parting from his smiling lips. 

"Silence, hound."


End file.
